


Sunshine and Lemon-Drops

by BeIntrospective



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: BAMF Reborn, Canon-Typical Violence, Except no one wants to play CLUE, F/M, Gen, Harry just wants to solve mysteries, Lets play CLUE, Master of Death Harry Potter, Ministry is still incompetent, Original Character(s), Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Reborn kills people, Reborn likes when people he kills stay dead, Shacklebolt tries though, Shamal is a Sketchy Doctor, Shamal is tired of this shit, Skull Is a Good Bro, whodunit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-04-26 23:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14412348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeIntrospective/pseuds/BeIntrospective
Summary: Its all fun and games until the cadaver tries to jump out a window.Or: The ministry doesn't do mysteries, but Harry does. Shamal would like mysteries to leave his windows be and Reborn just wants to do his job for once.





	1. It's Been a Long Day

**Author's Note:**

> "If there were no mystery left to explore life would get rather dull, wouldn't it?"  
> Sidney Buchman

“Well, that’s not something that you see every day.”

In fact, the cadaver – one foot planted firmly on the base of his office window and the other stretched beneath him to what Shamal prays is a ledge – is something he could go without seeing on _any day._ Happily so, he might add.

_Goddammit_.

“This is not what it looks like,” blurts the corpse, British accent thick and eyes flying from the still open doorway to the ground below it. “I swear.”

Seeing as how the last time Shamal saw this specimen there was far more skin and teeth removed from all their proper places and those bright green eyes were lifeless on a cold slab in the morgue, he isn’t quite sure what this is supposed to look like to him. Probably a nightmare? A one-way ticket to the nearest asylum? Or, maybe, just another Tuesday.

Shamal is sure no one else has to deal with this much shit on a regular basis. At least, no one who doesn’t already go looking for it. Just him.

Heaving a sigh, he can already feel the warm press of a fresh cigarette against his lips, Shamal shuts the door behind him. “I’m guessing you don’t want me calling the police. Or perhaps the mortician?”

It winces, the leg on the ledge shifting for a better brace – to jump or pull back, he isn’t sure which he would prefer right now. “I don’t suppose that was a poor attempt at a dark bit of humor for breaking into your office? I could leave through another window – you know, if that helps?” It says, weakly.

“Not so much,” Shamal grunts, “You may not remember this but we’re already more acquainted than I’d care to be.” It blinks. “You don’t remember - you, me? The ambulance driver trying not to lose his lunch from the bits of you we didn’t take with us on our threesome adventure?”

It groans, “I don’t suppose the last time you saw me I happened to be breathing then?”

Shamal snorts, reaching his desk to begin shuffling through his drawers, “Didn’t even make it to the hospital. If you want to look at what was left for you, I’ve got the papers downstairs. You were real photogenic, I gotta say.” Lighter…lighter… for all that is good and holy, that secretary had better not have snatched it again.

“When was this,” it steps back into his office to slump against his previously perfectly cadaver free wall. And lovely – there was still a tag in the big toe of the left foot.

Shamal checks his watch. Isn’t even happy hour anymore. “Four hours ago.” Maybe they hadn’t found his scotch yet.

There was moment of silence. The cadaver stares at what he assumes is the back of his head. Shamal ignores its existence and continues looking for his scotch. There has yet to be a problem he couldn’t just drink away. If this was it – it couldn’t hurt to try anyway.

“You’re handling this better than most,” it comments. 

And there was no scotch to be found. Great.

Shamal groans, long and loud and full of what he hopes translates his goodbyes for a peaceful day, “Between the two of us I’d say you’re handling your ‘not-death’ much better than I am. Do make a habit of breaking out of the morgue through the attending doctor’s window?” No alcohol, no cigarettes – was there any good left in the world?

A chuckle, deep and throaty like a recovering cold – or shards of a windshield still rattling around, _caught in the skin of a pale throat_ – “Well you can’t expect me to walk out through the front door, can you?” 

Great. It has a sense of humor. Post-mortem. How quaint. “To be honest I don’t think it’s reasonable to expect you to be walking anywhere at all. And for that matter,” he began, throwing himself into his chair and finally facing his very own zombie, “Why did it have to be my window anyway? Why not Carl’s? Nobody likes Carl.”

Wide green eyes blink once more from a pale face – _maybe regeneration was limited to the bare necessities of life, was blood propagated only until it could sustain –_ “You’re not going to call security?” It questioned.

Ha. “And tell them what? ‘Hey guys, disregard whatever brains they’re still peeling off the fender. Turns out the guy is just fine’,” he shoots back, caustically, “yeah, that would work out well.”

“A car?” It hisses suddenly, voice dripping with disdain, “I got hit by a bloody car?”

Shamal shrugs, “If it makes you feel any better – it was a minivan. With kids and everything.”

Now the cadaver looks horrified, and more than slightly sick. “I – are the kids ok? I mean, they didn’t…”

“See you play whack-a-mole with the front of their windshield, you mean?” he questions lightly, “No – from the reports you flew a good distance off. I doubt they even realized what happened if not for the bloody smear on the window.”

It still looks queasy. For the sure-fire two-year minimum counseling the kids will be receiving or the recounting of his own demise – Shamal doesn’t really care either way. “You’re…very blunt.”

“And you’re still breathing despite my own up close and personal experience with your corpse,” he agrees happily, standing. “Now that we’ve established the obvious, I suggest you stop loitering in my perfectly zombie free windows and find your way out without alerting the media. From the second story. Good luck.”

It scrambles to its feet, swaying and instinct has Shamal’s whole body violently flinching in its direction, prepared for a fall. “Wait!” It cries.

“Why?” Shamal cries back.

“I need your help-“

“No.” He refuses immediately, on principle.

“But you’re a doctor,” it argues.

“So?”

“You’re supposed to help people!”

“Women,” he corrects. “I help women. I didn’t really have a choice in your case – and luckily you were already mostly dead by that point. Which you might be again if you don’t leave my office,” he growls, hand already twisting the doorknob.

It splutters, seemingly at a loss for words, before _lurching_ and throwing its entire body at the door in some sort of uncoordinated mass of limbs. Fast. Much faster than Shamal expected – previous corpse like state notwithstanding. “But you’ve got to help me,” it pleads, pressing its entire weight uncomfortably against the door like it was the only thing keeping it upright. For all he knows, it could be.

Window – not a great idea after all. “You have to help me,” it demands, still pressed up against the door.

Shamal lets go of the handle, stepping back and letting his fingers curl up into his sleeve. There was, on the surface, absolutely nothing threatening about the young man in front of him. He could barely even stand upright. If not for the look in its eyes and Shamal’s gut twisting itself into knots, that is. “Again – why should I?”

It scowls once more, something fierce, gaze hard and challenging. Shamal fingers a capsule. “Do you really want a patient you pronounced dead just hours ago-“

“Four hours,” he mutters.

“-to be caught up and walking, perfectly fine, and in plain sight? I wouldn’t if I were you.” The thing has the gall to look smug, still clutching at the door like a lifeline. But smug as it was, there was, again, nothing overtly threatening in its face. The lines of the mouth were turned down, but relaxed – its knuckles white from keeping itself upright, but fingers clearly displayed and open. Not that a hospital gown had many places to hide any sort of weaponry.

But you learn not to underestimate any circumstance.

Shamal squints, lips curling. “You’re bluffing.” There was only one type of person that he knew of who could walk away, eventually, from an accident like this boy had. Not a good kind of person either.

It juts its chin out, green eyes flashing with a victorious smirk plastered across its unblemished skin. Briefly another image superimposes itself – less skin, more red painting what was still there, less life and _fire_ burning in those bright eyes. “You’re not the first doctor whose window I’ve had to climb out of. Try me.”

Shamal blinks and it is gone. In its place is a scrawny brat with legs too skinny to hold up its own inflated ego. Maybe it’s all the hot air in his- _its_ head keeping it afloat. “Fine, goddammit fine!” Throwing his hands in the air and whipping around to a tall cabinet shoved between the wall and corner, he starts throwing drawers open.

This kid was no assassin. But that did beg the question – what the hell was a civilian doing with active flames?

“What am I getting,” he barks, “If it’s your cloths I’m not sorry to say they’ve probably been thrown in the bin by now and no way am I dumpster diving. And shut that window!”

Now, perfectly content in its victory, it quickly moves to do as told, if still somewhat unsteady. “No – it’s a piece of wood. A polished stick really, along with an old cracked ring. They would have been inside pocket of my jacket.”

What. Was the kid joking?

“They’re family heirlooms,” it snaps, defensively. So, he must’ve said that out loud. Still.

“A stick is a family heirloom,” he questions dryly, grabbing an old beanie and a very ugly pair of glasses from the bottom drawer of the cabinet. “You got ripped off in the family will, gotta say. Either way those things could be at the police station by now for all I know. They usually dump the personal affects there until a friend or family of the deceased come to claim it. Just get a friend to pick it up,” he growls, dashing back across the room to grab his thinner coat.

The kid just blinks, incredulous, gesturing to his general person, “Doctor – I’m a cadaver climbing out of your second story window – how many friends do you image I have?”

Good point. “You mean you and all your zombie buddies don’t get together to have midnight raves and snack on brains?”

It smirks, “Only on Halloween.”

“Sad part is I can’t even tell if you are joking,” he huffs. “Fine! I’ll go check and see if your stuff hasn’t been carted off yet. But, so help me, if they are gone you are on your own.”

“Deal.”

Shamal shoves the collection of cloths in its arms with a bland smile. “And you’re coming with me.”

They are very rudely dropped to the floor. “What!?”

Swiping the beanie off the floor, he shoves it over the unruly black hair smothering the kid’s head, tufts still sticking out the side and through the occasional hole. “You could barely walk three feet before face planting, do you really think I’m going to let you climb out that window only to cart you back in when you’re found dead at the bottom?” He asks flatly.

It rolls its eyes, “I’ll be fine – motor function never takes too long to kick back into gear. It’s just a bit shakier this time.”

Shamal pointedly ignores that last statement for his own sanity. “No.”

“I’ll just wait here then.”

That was never going to happen. Mafia or not (and he still wasn’t sure on that point – Omerta was a _bitch_ ) he has a lot of sensitive information stashed away here for the moment. The least of which was now on _this_ guy. “You either shove the rest of that on or find another doctor who is willing to claim temporary insanity when charges are inevitably pressed. Besides,” he flings a ratty scarf at his face, “the best way to get in or out of somewhere is usually through the front door.”

“I don’t know,” it drawls, “The second floor looks pretty promising.”

“Just put on the coat.”

And it does – looking far more like a living person than the dead one from hours earlier. Shamal can’t tell which is better. The former, probably, if just for the sake of morality and that this was less disturbing to look at. Standing at an impressive of height of no more than five foot seven, the young man (maybe even a late teenager) is swallowed whole in the wool of his old ratty coat. The beanie a more comical addition than anything with the way his hair jutted up from it like a demented troll doll. Even the glasses hang precariously off the edge of a small nose.

All in all, the cadaver looks rather like a hobo with uncommonly good hygiene. Shamal snorts.

“What,” he-it squawks, indignant. Really, he can’t be more than sevente-

Nope. Not going there.

Shamal grabs the scruff of the coat and hustles the kid along. “Come on. The sooner we get this done, the better. And don’t do anything stupid.”

It just glares and jerks away from his hold, twisting open the doorway and tumbling out into the hallway.

Where he proceeds to do something stupid.

Like tumbling into Carl.

Shamal groans, long and loud, his goodbyes to a peaceful day.

“Watch it,” Carl, with his thin lips, thin eyebrows, and thin patience snaps, his spindly legs bending around the force of a one hundred-pound teen with all the grace of an awkward giraffe. In fact, the only things not thin about this delight of a human being were his nose and his pride – both of which stretched far longer and wider than either had any right too.

Nobody likes Carl.

Zombie-kid mumbled an apology, face burning beneath his cap. It would’ve been cute – if Shamal hadn’t seen his face covered with a very different shade of red not too long ago. Carl was having none of it, glancing suspiciously between the pair. “Shamal, what is this?” he demands.

“Well Carl, I’m fairly certain this is a teenager. You may have seen one before, on occasion,” Shamal drawls, wishing now more than ever to have a lit cigarette – if only to annoy the man opposite him more.

Carl draws himself up to an impressive height, swelling as much as possible with a mixture of pride and indignation,” I know very well what a teenager is – I’m more surprised to find that _you_ do, seeing as how there is a distinct lack of leopard print leather miniskirts and questionable morals,” he sneers in reply. “I meant, _what_ is he doing up here.”

Shamal merely shrugs with a sly smile at the jab – the man made a fair point after all. “He’s my nephew. I had to pick him up after an unfortunate meeting at a motel left him without out –“ Shamal continues past the pain in his foot and the cadaver’s muted fuming, “a wallet and a way home.” He winks, “An attraction for leopard print runs in the family after all.”

Carl leans away from the cadaver-kid with a grimace (and Shamal might _actually_ get a kick out of imagining what everyone’s reactions would be if they really knew what the kid was – it was like when he went through four hours of secondary school with a dead armadillo in his backpack on a dare because, why not? The detention was worth every girls’ scream).

With the kid continuing to dig his foot into Shamal’s toes, ears burning with embarrassment, and Carl sufficiently disgusted by humanity’s offspring, Shamal concludes that his good deed for the day is done. “Now if you’ll excuse me I’m just going to do a quick examination to make sure nothing untoward was passed on. Unless you-“

“No,” the man quickly cuts in, “That is perfectly alright. I’m sure even you can manage to be slightly responsible without adult supervision for a change,” he sniffs, briefly giving a poorly disguised glare of revulsion to his companion– who looks just as repulsed and angry as Carl. Then he turns and leaves without a backwards glance.

“I told you not to do anything stupid,” Shamal says, once Carl is out of sight, grabbing the scruff of the jacket once more and proceeding to drag the kid down the hallway.

But he, apparently, was _also_ having none of it. “I didn’t,” he fumes. “You’re the one who dragged me out of the office and into the hall. And why did you tell him I bloody _slept_ with someone and got _robbed!?_ ”

Shamal chortles, merry as could be. “Did you have a better excuse?”

“Yeah,” it grinds out, “not telling him about my theoretical sexual exploits!”

“Not much of an idea – or an exploit really,” he says. “Now where’s your stuff. The sooner we part ways the happier we’ll both be.”

The promise of separation seems to calm the kid. “It’s down in the mortuary where I woke up-“

“And you didn’t think to grab it then,” Shamal hisses.

“If I had the chance maybe! Bit hard to do when the mortician is coming down the stairs and you’re on the opposite side of the room.”

After that they entered the more populated areas of the hospital – doctors and aids rushing down hallways, carts pulled along and pagers ringing in a nonstop litany of noise. Even so, there settled an uneasy sort of silence between the two, only interrupted by the ding of an elevator as the doors slid shut.

Next to him, the kid remains tense, strung up and ready to bolt at the nearest sign of trouble. Once more Shamal let his thoughts wander. Being tense was a normal reaction – the absolute stillness of the body next to him, not even a finger twitching, eyes constantly roving over his surroundings and Shamal himself? Not so much. That looked like a trained reaction. Trained to what was the question of the day.

Then again, reports of a missing body could come blaring over the speakers at any minute. It would be unsettling in any case – especially if you _were_ the body.

“Why aren’t you more freaked out?”

Shamal raises a single brow, pushing the kid through the elevator doors as the slid open to the lowest level of the hospital floors. “Would you like me to?”

He frowns, “Of course not. But you can’t deny that your reaction is…unusual.”

“I’m the unusual one?” Shamal deadpans. “You’re joking right?”

“People usually freak out a o lot more,” he defends hotly.

“I’m sure they do – this might come as a surprise to you, kid, but I’ve seen stranger.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“Stranger than a body coming back to life?” He counters, skeptically. And for good reason – anyone else would have suffered a severe meltdown. But Shamal thought of babies and flames and time travel. Then he snorted.

“It’s a big world out there, and you’ve not even seen a slice of it.” Though he might have to soon, if what he thought was going on was true. God, a civilian? An active civilian?

It takes him somewhat by surprise, then, when all the kid does was smile softly, something close to gratitude in his eyes as he looks at Shamal. “You’re right, I guess there is still a lot to learn.”

What a weird kid.

It doesn’t take much longer for them to reach the basement, and with the command for the kid to ‘ _stay here and don’t do anything stupid. Again’_ Shamal is in and out of the morgue with a strangely patterned stick and the old, cracked family ring.

As soon as they are in sight they are snatched from his hands – once more in that unnaturally fast movement that made him tense and clench his finger uneasily around a capsule. Something was still not right with this kid, besides the obvious, but hell would rain down on him if it was going to be any of Shamal’s business.

“Thank you,” the kid begins, “I really can’t-“

“Then don’t,” Shamal interrupts. Pushing him back to the elevator doors. “Really don’t mention it. You’ve got your stick and your ring, now go home.”

“But the paperwork-“

“Will be taken care of,” he grinds out.

The kid slaps his hands over the door as they attempted to close, though, staring at him, suspicion warring with gratitude in his eyes. “I can’t ask you to do that.” It doesn’t sound like he would have anyway. “I’ve got to make sure that the paperwork gets destroyed. No one can know-“

“I’m not an idiot,” Shamal snaps back. “This isn’t my first rodeo either. _You_ don’t have authorization to get to the paperwork necessary. I do. _You_ are a corpse. I am not. Ergo, you need to leave and I’ll make sure this is taken care of.”

But he doesn’t move, hand clamped white knuckled against the door as he stares Shamal down. Suddenly it felt like his soul is being weighed – by judge, jury, and executioner all at once. And, as he watches a finger twitch on the door, it seems the executioner wasn’t squeamish.

He clutches a capsule between his fingernails, digging into the hard shell enough to make a groove, but not crack it. Not yet.

Then – the kid sighs, hands dropping and tension fleeing. A smile made way on his face instead. Eyes bright once more with something unnamed. Almost trust, but not quite. “Thanks, then. I guess I really don’t have a choice in the matter.” Somehow, Shamal doesn’t think that is true, but he drops the pill in his pocket anyway.

A hand is suddenly thrust under his nose. “By the way, I’m-“

“Not interested,” Shamal interrupts with a lazy smile and a brief handshake. The palm was warm, rough with callouses along the finger tips. There was a flutter of a pulse beneath his hands and he quickly lets go. “First floor, head straight, then to your left after the fifth door. It’s the smoker’s exit and no one will notice much leaving that way. Hope I don’t see you around, kid.”

Then the doors shut and Shamal _breathes._

Because not knowing his-its name made it much easier to swallow the fact that a teenager found it completely normal to be run over by a minivan and wake up alone in the morgue. It wasn’t his job to know who, what, when, or, most importantly, how that came about.

Shakily, he goes back through to Gregory’s, the mortician’s, office. He always had a lighter in there somewhere. Because it might not be his job, but the potential existence of an Active Cloud who could propagate himself from death was something to keep track of.

And he’d be damned if he stole that paperwork without a smoke first.


	2. The Mysterious Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry celebrate his twenty second birthday the only way he knows how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Do not take life too seriously. You will never get out of it alive.” – Elbert Hubbard.

It began with the death of Edward Whitley in his home office with a half bottle of scotch in one hand, and a visiting ‘friend’ sleeping off the other half in the master bedroom.

Of course, as Harry would discover later, it really began with Amanda Higgins at her summer retreat in Wales, but for now he had ‘Edward the no-longer robust’, a weeping housekeeper named Carrie, a one-night friend, and Hermione on the other end of the phone instead of Ron.

“No Hermione,” Harry intones, waving off Auror Pierce with one hand and wishing he had a third to rub away the headache beginning at the bridge of his nose. “I don’t need Ron on this one – I just-“

“Harry, Ron can spare a minute to go assist in one measly murder case,” Hermione interrupts, huffing. “I’m not made of glass – and this isn’t even our first!”

“I know, I know,” he placates, “I never said you were and I know Ron doesn’t think so. But I also know having an extra hand with Rose is helping and with all of your work in the new office…” He lets his words die off as Pierce continues to gesture wildly to the room behind him, where Edward is still sitting, slumped over in his chair.

“And I do appreciate it Harry, really,” Hermione intones, “but if you need Ron to come out and help he’d be more than happy too.”

He smiles, “I know he would, and they’d let him too – even without a badge. But I’m fine, really. I just wanted to let you know I might not make it back on time. This is a bit of a strange case. I’m not even sure if it’s ours, actually.”

He can almost hear her frown, pictures the crease between her eyebrows and the cogs whirling behind her eyes. “What do you mean?”

Over his shoulder, Pierce is still signaling. Then he taps his watch with his wand, brows raised. Merlin, does Harry miss Ron. It’d only been a couple of weeks, but still. “I’ll have to tell you more if I can make it to dinner,” he answers eventually. War hero or not, the Auror department probably doesn’t appreciate an open case being discussed outside the department.

Then again – Harry doesn’t ever really stand by that guideline.

“I expect to hear everything. I’d met Whitley a few times after all,” she mentions, “It had to do with the new inter-muggle government positions we’re lobbying for. Whitley’s was one of the first to pass and lead up the department.”

Now Harry frowns, “Really? I knew that was in process, but I’d heard the Minister was still fighting Shacklebolt on the issue.”

“He is,” she confirms, “But Whitley is a muggleborn. After leaving Hogwarts he got into the muggle government and was already working there when Kingsley started the discussions. He had, at the time, nothing to do with the Ministry of Magic.”

“I didn’t know that,” Harry says.

On the other end of the line he hears something crash, then swearing in the background. Ron then. Hermione sighs, “I’m sure you’ll find out all of this eventually Harry, but it _isn’t_ common knowledge. In fact, Whitley being so far removed from the Wizarding world is probably one of the only reasons that he wasn’t picked up with all the other muggleborns a few years ago.” Another crash, this time accompanied by high pitched sobbing. “Anyway, I’ve got to go – sometimes I wonder if I’m not on my third child rather than my second,” she huffs.

Harry laughs, “Don’t tell Ron that. He likes to think that he’s helping you, at least a little bit. I’ll see if I can make dinner tonight, but no promises. I’ve got a few more questions about Whitley if you’re up for it.”

“Potter!” Pierce calls from behind him.

He rolls his eyes, says his goodbyes and hangs up the phone, striding back to the doorway of Whitley’s home office. “What is it Pierce?”

Despite being several years older than himself, Pierce was _not_ Senior Auror on this case and you could tell just how much he appreciated that decision. Just over average height and with broad shoulders, Barney Pierce cut an intimidating figure. He had deep set brown eyes and a serious disposition. In short, he was used to authority. Sometimes, too used to it.

So, they assigned him to partner with Harry. For obvious reasons.

Being, technically, the junior officer under a twenty-some-odd Auror who still looked in his late teens wasn’t good for any man’s testosterone levels. Pierce was no different.

“We need to leave before they bring in the muggle police,” Pierce cut straight to the point, “I’ve talked to both the maid and Whitley’s ‘guest’”, here he grimaces, “and while no one saw or heard anything, there is also nothing here to say that magic was involved in anyway.”

Harry sighs heavily. “So far I’d have to agree. I just got off the phone with someone who knew Whitley a bit,” he pointedly ignored Pierce’s _pointedly_ disapproving look, “and she said that Whitely was almost completely removed from the magical government or society. It’s only been recently he started getting involved again.”

Pierce doesn’t say anything for a moment, maybe hoping his disapproval will be felt.

Harry waits and feels nothing but impatience.

Eventually Pierce sighs too, “Then this is most likely a muggle killing. Maybe poison or who else knows what they get up to.”

“They get up to about the same as we do,” Harry presses a little more forceful than perhaps necessary, “Either way we have nothing to immediately suggest that we can do anything here. Shacklebolt will want to know. Think you can handle the housekeeper?”

He snorts, “Only if you take the ‘friend’.”

Harry does so. The friend turns out to be a very nice woman by the name of Natasha Rumley who met Whitley at a bar the previous night before accompanying him home when asked. Once again, she confirms, through tears, that she saw nothing, heard nothing, and basically knew nothing that would be of any help. Still he makes sure he takes her information down before Obliviating her and lying her back on the master bed. 

It’s only been a recent development, Aurors taking information for muggle forms of communication – or even just not disregarding them on principle – but so far it’s only seen positive results. More muggleborns had been getting involved in the muggle world than the magical recently that it’s been necessary just to keep up. The Department for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts had similarly seen its fair share of reforms as well, as Arthur was only too happy to oblige.

Not that Harry could blame them – after what happened to most of them…

A knock on the door has him turning to where Pierce stands, thumbing his watch again. “The maid is taken care of – won’t remember a thing besides coming into the apartment and phoning the muggle inspectors this morning. Whitley’s friend?”

Harry stands, “About the same, woken up by the maid’s scream – didn’t hear or notice anything usual during the night or in the morning.”

“Alright then – you want to take the report to Minister Shacklebolt, or should I?” It both sounded and looked as if it had taken hammer to pry out that rusty nail of a request from Pierce, but he was obligated to ask and Harry was all too happy to reply.

“I’ll go ahead and see Kingsley,” Harry smiled at the twitch of Pierce’s left eye, “He wanted to talk to me more about another case potentially connected to this one anyway. You can finish filing a report and head home early. I might be a while.”

With a jerky nod and a sharp crack, his partner was gone. Harry was left in an empty apartment with a dead body and two unconscious women who were about to have a very bad day.

“Happy Birthday to me.”

o.O.o

“Kingsley,” Harry greets as he opens the heavy wooden doors to the Minister’s office, “How has your morning been? Not full of murder, I hope?”

Looking far too awake for how early Harry knows the man has been up – he called Harry to the scene of the crime himself, after all – Kingsley lowers his quill and grins broadly, standing. “Auror Potter – it’s been pleasantly devoid of such before your appearance. I had a nice cup of coffee, a bagel, and signed four pieces of paper that I can no longer recall what was written on them.”

Harry grins in return, moving to the large desk neatly organized with more paper than Harry had ever seen on even McGonagall’s desk during exams, and clasps hands with Kingsley. “I’m glad I could add a little something extra to your schedule then.”

“I hope that something extra is good news, Potter,” Kingsley asks, sitting once more.

Harry remains standing, grimacing. “Not quite. There was nothing there to suggest foul play of the magical sort. Nothing to suggest foul play at all, really.”

The minister doesn’t look as surprised as Harry expects. “I thought not.”

“If I might ask, how did you know so quickly that something was wrong?” Harry questions, “We were there even before the muggle police. Normally we don’t get notice for a murder or crime of one of our own in the muggle world until after they’ve hit a stumbling block or a friend notifies the ministry about it.”

“As you know,” Kingsley begins, “that is something we are working on fixing-“

“With the news laws,” he nods, “I’m aware.”

The older man doesn’t look put off by the interruption, just continues, “Then I’m sure you’re aware that Whitley was a key player in spearheading those discussions and plans. He was already involved in the muggle ministry by the time we made contact about our proposals. He agreed and has been in discussion with myself, the Prime Minister, and several others on occasion.”

Harry watches as he opens a drawer at the top of his desk with a wave and a piece of parchment floats out, gently coming to rest in the air before him. He grabs it and reads. “Amanda Higgins?”

Kingsley nods, “Also involved in the discussions. Found dead two weeks ago in her summer home in Wales from what appeared to be an overdose of muggle medication.”

“Muggle pills,” Harry asks, surprised.

“Amanda was a squib; her mother was a witch, her father a muggle. As such she had experience in dealing closely with both worlds and had invaluable input on our discussions,” the other man states, a sad smile on his face. “Sharp as a tack, that one. But not the healthiest around, though she managed. It’s because of that and her magical status that we weren’t concerned with foul play.”

“Weren’t, sir?” Harry says, “And we?”

“Myself and the others who are working towards having positions in the muggle government for better internal relationships with the muggle world,” he confirms. “In fact, I’m sure if I brought Whitley’s fate to them, they still wouldn’t see much of a cause for concern. Both Amanda and Whitley were much more heavily involved in the muggle world, little to no relation with the magical. As you know, that introduces certain preconceived ideas,” Kingsley intones meaningfully.

Harry nods. Not our world, not our problem.

“I felt something was a bit wrong, though, regarding Amanda. I never asked specifically what her illness entailed, only that it was nothing we could help, but I knew she managed it meticulously – almost obsessively. For her to make a mistake with her medication,” he trails off and Harry immediately understands.

“It just didn’t seem right,” he concludes. After all, Harry has made further leaps in logic before, based on much less.

“Exactly.”

Harry continues, “And so you set someone to watch a few others, just in case.”

Shacklebolt nods, “Just in case. And is seems I was right to do so. When the Auror I posted at Whitley’s heard the maid’s scream from the apartment, he immediately notified me-“

“And you immediately sent for me,” Harry finished.

Kingsley shrugs apologetically, “No rest for the wicked. Not even on their birthdays, I’m sorry to say Potter. Happy twenty-second by the way.”

“Thanks,” Harry waves off the congratulations absentmindedly, still looking at Amanda Higgin’s documents. “So, what do we do now?”

“Now,” Kingsley stands, broad and imposing, looking ready to face war, “I try to convince my colleagues that we have a serious issue at hand coming from the muggle world.”

He doesn’t mean to (mostly) but Harry snorts. Kingsley grimaces.

“What about the Prime Minister? Or Whitley’s case?”

Motioning them both to the door, the other man continues, “So far the threats have only been towards those connected to the Magical community and our discussion of integration, however small that connection may run. I don’t think it necessary to set the Prime Minister off burning incense to ward off curses quite yet.”

Harry laughs, “He didn’t – did he?”

Kingsley shakes his head, “No – but it was a very serious inquiry about a month ago, I can assure you. And as for Whitley I want to get the reports that the muggles conduct on him. It was how we found the cause of Miss Higgins’ death and I’m sure there is something we can learn there about Whitley’s.”

Harry nods, “I’ll be sure to head to the hospital later today. That is, if they’ll have him there by then.”

“With a man of Whitley’s position, I am sure they will.”

“Alright then,” Harry nods to his boss, “I’ll go report in, check if Pierce is filling a complaint against me yet, and swing by the hospital later.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Kingsley smiles warmly, and Harry is reminded once more of why he decided to stick it out in the ministry amongst the general rabble. But then the smile dims, and before they can leave, the man presses a palm to hold the doors closed.

For a moment, Harry just stares and analyzing the lines on Kingsley’s face, the deep groove of his mouth tugging down at the corners. Suddenly, Harry feels that there is much more to this case than Kingsley is letting on. And nothing good. “What is it?”

“Harry,” Kingsley begins,” I’ve been watching over you for just under a decade – on guard rotation or not,” here he smiles almost bitterly and the hairs on Harry’s neck prickle with unease, “and so I must ask that you remain watchful. Be careful.”

“Kingsley,” wearily he places a hand on the minister’s shoulder, “what is this about?”

Silence. Then a heavy sight as the man clasps Harry’s own hand tightly. “Maybe nothing at all – the nightmares of an old man still afraid of a nameless threat,” he says. “But regardless – consider what it is we’re doing here, Harry. We are seeking for a greater understanding and cooperation between our world and the muggle. We seek for the safety of both. Other – others with not see it that way.” Dark eyes regard him seriously, “What do you think would happen if witches and wizards who _are_ prominent in society start turning up dead by muggle means. What kind of chaos that would cause?”

Harry’s own eyes, he knows, are wide. Not quite with fear, but maybe the shadow of something deeper. Experience. “Do you think this is coming from someone inside? Someone pushing a political agenda?”

Shacklebolt hums and Harry knows that he’s running through the same list of people that he is right at that moment. No one with the right combination of power, brains, and knowledge comes to mind, but that means very little. Eventually the other man speaks, “I don’t know, nor do I want to immediately jump to the worst conclusion. However-“

“Constant vigilance,” Harry near whispers with a wry grin that Kingsley matches.

“Exactly. And I trust you more than near anyone else Harry. There is already talk of you heading the Auror department in a few years, maybe less,” Harry grimaces, “and so I want you to be alert. Note anything that seems unusual to you, anyone with right sort of connection and the wrong sort of ideas.”

“You know I will Kingsley,” Harry finally moves to open the office doors, “I’ll head to the hospital when I can for now, though, and let you know what I find. We’ll start from there.”

Kingsley nods, before a brighter, wider, grin settles on his face – lines lifting into something more jovial and warm. “Of course. And be sure to send my regards to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley on their upcoming newest family member. I know that Cresswell is missing his newest assistant already.”

“I’ll pass on the first,” Harry grins, “but if I mention anything to do with work I’m pretty sure Hermione with come bearing down on the doors to overturn the whole department. Cresswell should think a little bit more before he invites that storm to rage in his office.”

o.O.o

Harry has successfully destroyed the formal complaint Pierce made against him without the other Auror’s knowledge, dodged Rita Skeeter’s best birthday wishes (and the wishes of about a dozen other witches), and planned enough time to have dinner with the Weasley family that night by the time he arrives at St. Mary’s hospital up from the underground station.

Harry had taken the tube several times, the first of which was with Hagrid and only once with Ron. He is firmly against bringing any sort of wizard on public transportation ever again. It is still the fastest way to get around without apparating in the middle of the road, however. (It was only much later that Harry found out that, no, it was not ok to Apparate in the middle of muggle London, thanks for sharing that bit of information Hermione).

He is only here to check that Whitley’s body has been recovered successfully and how close they are to a full examination -

-but then there’s a girl _– she’s got ribbons in her hair, two of them,_ _green –_ going to cross in the middle of the road and his body just _moves._ He doesn’t see the large car, nor hear the horn screaming as it rushes him. He only sees two green ribbons and a neat bow on the back of a little pink dress – _like a dress Rose would wear, and the girl isn’t turning just standing there andwhyisn’tsheruning-_

Then there is pain. There is the sky, feeling weightless, rushes of colors and sounds and then there is nothing but pain and grey. He is not weightless, he feels like he is sinking to the bottom of the Black Lake, but the ground beneath him in solid, and everything is blurred and he _would scream but he can’t._

Harry doesn’t know what happens next. Only fading colors and sounds and sensations. Most importantly, he thinks as the world turns black, is that he doesn’t know what happened to that little girl.

There is only a whisper, or maybe a thought.

_Happy Birthday Harry_

Then Harry Potter is waking up amongst the dead, less panicked than he should be and sneaking away under the guidance and help of, perhaps, the sketchiest doctor he has ever met. He hears nothing about a little girl in the road. And through all this Harry can’t help but just feel tired.

That, and that when Hermione finds out – he is dead. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so don't expect quick updates like this all the time - I've been sitting on this chapter for literally a year. No joke. A whole year. But I am already working on the next chapter - not sure when it will be done, but hopefully before another year goes by...Anyways, if any of you know any great Harry Potter crossovers, please share! I'm dying to find more but the searching on this site isn't as organized as the one on FF. Also, as always, I'm looking for a good Beta reader if anyone is interested. 
> 
> BeIntrospective


	3. What to Expect When You're Expecting (Trouble)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a happy family dinner not made by Kreacher - until it's not (the happy part, not the Kreacher one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The only sure weapon against bad ideas is better ideas” – Alfred Griswold

As grateful as Harry was for the wool cap, scarf and thin coat that Doctor Shamal, as his shiny name tag denoted, had given him it did not mean that he appreciated wandering about in nothing but those and a breezy hospital gown for the rest of the day.

So, after ducking into the nearest dark alley he could – apparation laws be damned, dusk was settling, and Hermione was going to _murder him_ – he immediately disapparated to Grimmauld Place for a change of clothes.

“Would Master be wanting to keep this,” Kreacher stands in the doorway of Sirius’, now Harry’s, bedroom, hunched over and bat like ears drooping from the side of his head, tufts of white hair poking out from the inside. In his knobby hand is clasped the mortuary tag that had been formerly attached to Harry’s big toe.

That Kreacher had removed it just a few minutes previously - calmly and without a hint of disgust or curiosity - made Harry both wonder and dread what he might have done in his previous service to the Black family that the elf wasn’t put off in the least taking something like that out of his foot.

Harry’s smile is more of a grimace as he tries to not feel sick. “No thanks, Kreacher. Please throw it away. Or burn it. Just burn it, please.”

The house elf sniffs in acknowledgement, large glassy eyes roving over Harry’s form before turning to leave, muttering backhanded compliments and insults at Harry and the world at large respectively. Harry watches the empty doorway for a moment.

He is, even now, still amazed that Kreacher has stayed with him all these years. Immediately after the war had ended, and left with nowhere to go, Harry moved into Grimmauld Place for lack of a better option. The Weasley's were in mourning, they didn't need to put up with him, and the Dursley's were off who knows where in whatever situation the Order had decided was the equivalent of Muggle Witness Protection.

And there he had stood in the dark, dusty living room, the portrait of Mrs. Black wailing and screeching from the hallway, for a full minute before a large crack had startled him into firing a blasting hex at the wall behind him. 

It only missed the intruding house elf by virtue of him being a little too short for a death eater.

Kreacher had taken one glance at Harry, one long, foul glare at the new hole in the wall, before muttering audibly, "More work for Kreacher. Never gets a rest, Kreacher does, before Master begins tearing down mistress' house. Poor mistress, what would she say about this." Then he moved on, beginning to sweep up the plaster and splintered wood on the ground, ignoring the dumbly gaping wizard in his wake.

He then proceeded to insult Harry into the master bathroom for a good wash. "Master Regulus would be ashamed to see such filth stomping about, so ashamed. Dirt all over Kreacher's clean floors," were the mutters as he pushed him up the stairs, Harry eyeing a spot of mold in the corner on his way up. After which the house elf immediately guilted him into eating a surprisingly edible soup. "Gone to waste this will. No one cares if Kreacher slaves away over food. No, too good for the Master this must be, so ungrateful for Kreacher's work".

The next two days had gone on in a similar fashion, a mix between snide comments and meticulous care to the house and regular meals. It took that much time for Hermione and Ron, the former red in the eyes and the latter red in his ears, to track him down and scold him thoroughly for taking off without warning or a letter to let them know where he was.

Kreacher stood in the background, all the while, cleaning and muttering.

Weeks later, after the world had settled down a bit more, funerals had been attended and families reunited, Harry approached Kreacher about leaving. He knew that there was no love lost between them and likely the elf had no wish to serve Harry as he was - a mutual desire to be sure - but he also knew that Kreacher feared nothing more than being a free house elf.

So, he offered to give him to Narcissa Malfoy, formally of the Black family that Kreacher so dearly loved.

Kreacher's glassy eyes had stared up at him from another mess Dung had left in his hasty theft of the property, unnervingly blank save for his perpetual scowl. Then his mouth twisted even further, and he returned to his work, mummering scathingly, "Master thinks Kreacher is not good enough for him, must be. The _great Master_ must think himself above nasty house elf. What would Master Regulus say, forcing Kreacher to leave his home. Kreacher must ignore stupid Master. Master too stupid to know better."

The elf said nothing more on the subject ever again, though his thoughts were clear enough. For the next week Harry heard an assortment of words meaning stupid in direct connection with his name, his left socks were constantly going missing, and had to fend for himself for morning and afternoon meals (Mrs. Weasley, as always, had been happy to accommodate him).

To this day Harry was unsure if Kreacher simply didn't wish to leave Grimmauld Place or if it was something more. If it _was_ something else, Kreacher would not deign to give a reason and Harry didn't much care to ask.

The elf was a silent, if mulish and bitter companion to have, but a companion nonetheless. The only sentiment Harry had seen from the creature to suggest anything deeper in five years was a photo written in Regulus' handwriting. Sirius and his brother, not yet of age for Hogwarts, were dirty and grinning, waving madly from the picture from what looked like a quidditch pitch. It had been left on his bed the evening of his birthday last year.

Now, as Harry stands alone in his room, toe newly devoid of identification and still throbbing with pain, he is even more grateful for the elf. He doesn't think that Hermione could have helped with as much cool professionalism as the house elf had. Not without a good explanation that Harry really doesn’t have to give.

He still can’t decide if he even wants to tell Hermione or Ron anything about what had happened.

A creak from the hallway alerts him to Kreacher's presence, the faint smell of smoke trailing after him making Harry grin weakly. "Will Master be wanting his supper this evening, or is he going to the blood traitors' for food - _nasty food no doubt, poor Kreacher, who knows what they put in it, what Kreacher will have to fix later..."_ the elf trails of in a mutter.

Long since used to the elf's vocabulary as more a facet of his personality than any real insult, Harry opens his mouth only to pause, unsure.

He's almost late anyway. His absence could easily be blamed on his case - in fact, it wouldn't even be a lie. Between doubling back to make sure any trace of his...visitation to the hospital was gone, picking up the work for Whitley, and asking that Doctor about twenty questions that were not entirely appropriate to ask a muggle - though how the _bloody hell_ a muggle could look at a walking corpse and barely bat an eye-

"Is Master feeling unwell?" The muffled question interrupts his thoughts and Harry realizes that he did not actually give an answer, " Master must not be right in the head, though Master is never very right in the head. Poor Kreacher, all the work he must do for his stupid Master," Kreacher shuffles out the door before Harry can call him back.

"Well, Kreacher, you're not wrong," Harry smiles wryly, watching his expression in the mirror.

As per usual, as _usual_ at it can be in this case, he looks completely normal. There are no blemishes on his face or body, aside from those that were already there. His scar is still a faint impression on his forehead, the words on his hands rough and harsh against the smooth skin around it. With a new pair of glasses (he has about seven of them, his work is a hazard to his vision, among other things) he looks completely, utterly normal.

Doesn't look dead in the least.

_Third time,_ Harry muses, _is not, in fact, the charm._ And though he is grateful to still be alive, there are deeper concerns to what has happened, concerns he has yet to share wholly with anyone.

Hermione and Ron were both made aware and completely horrified by what had happened in the forbidden forest. It wasn't like he really had a choice _but_ to tell them. Hermione had as many theories as Ron did curses, neither of which were helpful. At the time Harry was just glad to be alive and wanted to put the whole experience behind him.

Until it had happened again.

Taking one long last look at his reflection, he let his eyes rove across the picture of Sirius and Regulus and, next to them in a separate frame, Teddy and Rosie smiling with wide cheeks and missing teeth up at him.

He sighs, then shouts, "Kreacher - I'm heading out. Don't bother with dinner!" There is a crash from what sounds like the downstairs kitchen, probably purposefully inflicted, and louder, half shouted intelligible muttering.

Turning on his heels before he can change his mind, with a twist in his navel and crack in his ears, the next thing he sees are the wooden doors of a modest cottage.

“Harry!” Harry only had a single moment to blink before he is brought to his knees under the combined weight of Rose, Teddy, George and _Ron,_ of all people, as they come tumbling out from the flung-open doorway of the Weasley-Granger household. Beyond the flailing limbs and bright faces, he sees Hermione and Andromeda standing back and grinning just as broadly.

His shoulders relax, warmth seeping into limbs that still felt cold and weighty, disconnected in some strange way even now. But he shakes his head and puts the thought (and worries, Merlin the _theories_ ) to rest. At least for now.

“Hey Ron,” he smiles, “didn’t realize you’d missed me that much. It’s only been a couple of days!”

Ron, who had since detached himself from the mob, holding little Rosie up and out of reach from Teddy’s enthusiasm, sheepishly smiles back, ears burning just the slightest bit of red. “Well, you know how it is,” he stammers, “hard not to get caught up in all the kiddos’ excitement.”

Harry laughs and turns to George, “So what’s your excuse then?”

“Who says I’m not a kid,” is all he gets in response.

“You’ll hear no argument from me otherwise,” Angelina Weasley nee Johnson says as she rounds the corner to her husband’s side.

“Hey Angelina,” Harry greets in surprise. Both she and George had just returned from their own honeymoon – having been married over a year prior, but unable to get the time off that they needed until Ron joined George at the shop. “Great to see you.”

“Oh, so she gets a warm welcome and I get called childish,” Ron moans from the side, “how’s that for being best friends, Hermione? Harry’s gone on and replaced me already.”

“Ron,” Harry says, “I saw you a few days ago. I haven’t seen Angelina for over a month!"

“Oh, he knows,” Hermione quips from where still she stands half in the kitchen, next to Andromeda, both wielding spatulas like scepters, “I’m pretty sure he has a pocket calendar that he uses to keep track of the next time he gets to see you. Honestly, you’d think _I_ was the interloper on your relationship.”

Now Ron’s ears are truly a violent shade of crimson and the whole group laughs uproariously at his expense. He merely groans and shifts the almost toddler from one hip to the other, before ushering everyone back inside.

Teddy, still clinging to Harry’s leg as he trudges through the doors, has been chanting happy birthday since he latched on, hair immediately flowing from his usual turquoise to Harry’s own jet black, and back again. Reaching down to unlatch the octopus, Harry lets the last of the tension leave his shoulders with a soft smile. “Hello there, pup. Haven’t seen you for, well,” he pauses and sets his face in a dramatic pose of contemplation, “maybe fifteen years it seems!”

Teddy giggles hysterically and mashes his hand, and the questionable substance sticking to it, in Harry’s face, “I’m only _four_ Harry! It wasn’t _fifteen_ ago!”

“No,” says Andromeda approaching with, bless her heart, a damp washcloth for his face as they trade goods, “He saw you last week when he came to babysit, remember? And did a fine job of working you up into a right state for me when I got back to,” she shoots him a mock glare.

“Always here if you need me Andromeda,” Harry chirps in reply, wiping down the mess of what he hopes is either brownie or cake mix from his face.

“Though never on time,” Hermione comes and grips him in a tight hug, mindful of the growing bulge in her belly, but no less tight for it. “Where were you? We were expecting you an hour ago, or to at least have heard from you by then?” She lightly rebukes with a small frown. 

“Told her not to worry,” George says, “Always the diva, you were – should’ve expected you to arrive fashionably late, _as usual_.”

Ron scoffs, “You would know.”

George gasps, horrified, and clutching at his heart as if in mortal agony. “Why Ronniekins! How _dare_ you! I’ll have you know that I have impeccable timing. A wizard such as myself, after all, is never late-“ From his side Angelina groans loudly, rubbing the bridge of her nose, “nor am I early, I arrive precisely when I mean to.”

“Not this again,” his wife mutters.

“Was that…was that _Lord of the Rings_?” Hermione asks, voice low and incredulous.

Ron looks confused, “Lord of the what now?”

Shaking her head and whacking her husband on the arms while she’s at it, Angelina sighs, “Yeah. Ever since my mum got that blasted series for him for his birthday, he’s done nothing but quote the thing every chance he gets. For all that is holy never tell him a good morning. Ever.”

Hermione’s eyes light in understanding and amusement while everyone else looks vaguely confused and suspicious – as is the usual reaction when anything involving Angelina’s husband is mentioned. George continues to smile blithely.

“Enough of that,” Andromeda has since put Teddy down and now gestures everyone into the dining room, which had been expanded into the living area with an extra table and several odd assortments of chairs from around the house. “We’ve been kept waiting long enough regardless of whatever timetable Harry has been keeping. To the dinner table all of you – fly you fools!”

George barks out a laugh and a holler of triumph while Angelina just groans once more.

Soon, dinner is set, and everyone digs in. Harry learns that Molly and Arthur are still in Romania with Charlie (“No doubt trying to find him a wife,” Ron mutters through his potatoes) while Ginny is off visiting Bill and Fleur’s family at their cottage while on a brief break from her time with the Hollyhead Harpies (“Also probably trying to avoid Charlie’s fate,” George adds with a wicked grin, “she quite likes being single from what I hear”).

Conversation is kept light, though Harry can see Hermione's knee bouncing impatiently, the quick and meaningful glances she sends him out of the corner of her eye occasionally distracting him. For once, it is Ron who lightly elbows Hermione, smiling broadly as he scoops her up another helping of Green Bean Casserole (the witch had the strangest cravings - that casserole had been at attendance in almost every meal he's had with the family for the past few months, and after the first taste he has since politely declined it each time it is offered - the children pouting mulishly and jealously at him as it is piled onto their plates).

Teddy and Rosie are wild with glee when the treacle tart is brought out after the 'horrid, slimy green stuff' is cleaned from their plates.

"Happy Birthday, Harry," Andromeda squeezes him tightly around the shoulder's as she finishes serving everyone up - the children chorusing the same.

"Mum and dad were planning on being home by now to come too," George adds with a shrug, "but Charlie ended up a little more singed after a particularly nasty hatching two days ago that sent mum into a tizzy." If one had thought Mrs. Weasley to be a fierce matriarch before the war, the aftermath produced a whole different sort of beast. No one in the family had yet to put her off it though, they all accepted it with good natured ribbing and an occasion sad gleam in their eyes.

"But you're not getting off that easy," said Ron, "Their planning on throwing you another birthday party when they get back. One that Bill and Fleur and everyone else can attend as well."

"How are they anyways," Harry asks.

Hermione beams, eyes shining with a motherly glow, "Fleur and the Hugo are doing wonderful. I'm sure having Ginny there is a huge help too - I know I really appreciated it."

"Tis the season of babies," George chortles, wiggling his eyebrows at Angelina.

She snorts and rolls her eyes, but blushes furiously, "Come off it," she whacks his arm again.

Hermione's eyes snap between the two, like observing a particularly fast-paced Quidditch match, "Angelina?"

Ron, just a tad oblivious, raises an eyebrow to his wife at her excited near whisper.

The woman in question blushes a brighter red, ears burning near as much as her husband's hair, jabbing his side with a finger, "Why I ever trust your word on anything anymore, I'll never know."

"You are!" Hermione squeals and Ron winces.

"Congratulations," Harry says warmly, joy filling him with warmth at the news.

"Congratulations?" Ron asks, still slightly dazed, "On what?"

"They're having a baby, Ronald," Hermione is too excited to sit still reaching over and clasping hands with Angelina. "How far along are you?"

"Not far," the other witch replies, “we found out just after getting back."

Andromeda chuckles, cleaning up the chaos of chocolate and green beans that paint the plate and table surrounding both Teddy and Rosie - the elder acting as muse for the younger's budding artistry it seemed, "Then I suppose I shouldn't break out the fire whiskey, better be the Butterbeer for us tonight. Come on you two, up you get." She bundles the two children up and out of their chairs to go get clean.

Though Angelina's announcement seemed enough to distract Hermione well enough as soon as the children were out of the room Ron's eyes were glued to Harry's and he sighed.

"Ron you know I technically shouldn't be discussing an ongoing case with you," Harry weakly protests.

Ron snorts and Hermione breaks of her low conversation with Angelina, "Right. Course." And continues to stare, expectantly.

Angelina stands, dragging her husband up with her, "I think Andromeda might need some help with the kids, come on George."

As George’s protests fade into the hallway, Hermione asks, "Were you able to find out more from Kingsley, Harry?"

“No,” Harry sighs heavily, “I wasn’t able to learn much more than I told you before. Everything else you really already know.”

“This is about that Whitley bloke, right,” Run frowns.

“Yeah,” Harry nods, “we found him dead in his apartment this morning. Well, the housekeeper was the one who found him. Gave Whitley’s guest sleeping in the bedroom the heart attack of a lifetime, I’m sure.”

“Blimey,” Ron grimaces, “what a way to start the day, huh?”

Harry snorts in response, “For the both of us. What’s more is that there isn’t anything to indicate that this was done by a witch or wizard. Like you said,” he nods towards Hermione, “he was far removed from the wizarding world. The only contacts he kept in touch with were Kingsley and the others on the new Muggle Law committee. Kingsley said as much himself. Speaking of, how _did_ you know so much about that anyway?” He questions.

Biting her lip and rubbing her hands down the legs of her trousers, Hermione glances wearily between both of her oldest friends. “I’m really not supposed to say, Cresswell was very adamant about it, but since you’re already involved, if not in the strictest sense-”

Harry huffs, more surprised that he hadn’t made the connection beforehand, “I should’ve guessed that they would bring you on board as soon as they could. Kingsley hinted at it enough that I should've known sooner.”

Ron gapes at his wife, “Blimey, Hermione! I knew there was something going on with the muggles, but you didn’t tell me you were working with the Minister!”

“That was the whole point, Ron,” she says, wryly, but glowing with faint pride, “it was supposed to be kept very secret. It’s barely begun and there is still so much more that we need to accomplish before this becomes public. We’ve only just scratched the surface of the integration we’re working towards.”

“You might have to cut the secrecy sooner than you’d like, Hermione,” Harry gravely states, bringing out the plain folded parchment with _‘Amanda Higgins’_ scrawled neatly along the upper boarder.

Hermione’s face pales, eyes wide with a wet sheen already gathering in the corners as they fixate on the name written. “Oh no, y-you don’t mean-“

He only nods. She swallows. “This might be a lot bigger mess than just Whitley’s death. Amanda Higgins was found two weeks prior at her summer home in Wales. They said that the cause of death was an overdose of her prescribed medication-“ Hermione makes a brief, choked sound, “but Kingsley isn’t willing to rule anything out.”

“And he shouldn’t,” Hermione bursts, angry and fists clenched, “I knew Amanda, I even met with her outside of work a few times. She was so _careful_ with her medication – she would _never_ have overdosed, everything was kept so meticulously! W-we were supposed to meet for lunch,” she whimpers, covering her face as tears begin to fall, “after she got back. She was going to lend me a few of her books…”

Ron is there, wrapping his arms around her and silent as she begins to cry. Harry knows his friend, knows how hard it is for him to say the right thing to help even someone he loves as much as Hermione in moments like this. So, he sits there and holds her instead as Harry watches on, gut twisting with pain for his friend’s loss.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione,” Harry apologizes, softly, “I didn’t realize you were friends.”

She shakes her head, “We – we weren’t. Not really. Not y-yet.”

What she doesn’t say is that they would have been. She doesn’t need to.

"I hate to do this," Harry continues, "but is there anything else you can tell me about her."

She shakes her head a little harshly, bushy hair flying, "Not if you've already spoken with Kingsly about her. She liked him, you know? Thought that he was really nice and respectful even though she was a squib."

"A squib?" Ron questions, "Didn't know there was another person who had died."

"That's because you're not an Auror anymore Ron - and it doesn't help that she was a squib. It's one of the reasons our case isn't well known yet. Either way, so far there's only been two," Harry says, "but considering that they were both involved with the discussions of the new positions and how they died - Kingsley is worried."

"S-so how did Whitley die then," Hermione sniffs past her tears, rubbing them away with a rough hand, gripping Ron's own with her other, "You said this morning that you weren't completely sure."

Harry grimaces at the reminder of his ill-fated trip, "Still don't know. Nothing overt. He had a glass of alcohol with him, but until I get the medical records back from the muggle hospital he was transferred too we won't really know."

"Hang on, why wasn't he taken to Saint Mungo's?" Ron asks.

"The muggle hospitals are better at detecting if there were any harmful drugs in his system and how they might've interacted with anything else to cause his death," Harry explains. "Especially if it was muggle medicine, like with Amanda. With nothing overtly magical to show a cause of death, nothing that we could detect anyway, and add to that how far removed he was from the magical world it just made more sense to pass him on and collect the information later."

Hermione is biting her lip now, the knuckles of her hand white from griping Ron's, "Have - have you considered the Unforgivables?"

Ron blinks at his wife in astonishment.

"I mean," she starts to babble nervously, "The Avada curse wouldn't leave any trace that you could find without the wand that cast it. No one would want to think of it being used, all things considered, but it does make sense. It leaves the body without a mark - like they went in their sleep."

Yellow robes and a young face flash green before Harry's eyes and he takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "You might be right, Hermione. More so than any of us realize."

" _Seriously?"_ Ron near whispers, horrified.

Harry just nods. "Before I finished with Shacklebolt, he told me to keep an eye out. You know, for anyone with the 'right sort of connections and the wrong sort of ideas'".

He can see by the paling of her face that Hermione immediately understands what he means.

"Of course," she mumbles lowly, "I suppose - well it would make a sick sort of sense, wouldn't it?"

Ron huffs, "I think I might be a bit lost - who _exactly_ is Kingsly telling you to look out for?"

It’s his wife that answers, quietly, "Death Eaters."

A heavy silence descends in the kitchen – the joy and warmth of the previous atmosphere fled in face of a cold and dark possibility.

"But," Ron stammers, " _why?_ We haven't heard anything from them since the end of the war? They were all rounded up!"

"We can't possibly find everyone Ron, as hard as we try," Hermione says, still quiet, almost thoughtful if not for the tremor in her voice. "Even if we did find everyone active back then, there's always a chance of new people popping up with similar ideas who might decide that we've, you know...gone too far."

"Gone too far?" He says, aghast, "In _what?"_

"With muggles," Hermione says, still worrying her lip. "Think about it, we are introducing an _entirely_ new branch in the ministry, dedicated solely to understanding and immersing themselves in the muggle world - well their government in any case. I know normal witches and wizards who don't think it’s a good idea - now imagine how the more traditional, darker families might feel?"

Ron's grimaces in understanding in what Harry thinks is understanding.

"We don't know that's the case yet," Harry reminds them, "it’s just a vague theory, one of the more drastic ones too. So far, all the deaths point to being more mundane than magical - and I don't know any witch or wizard with the right combination of brains, connections, or ideals that could think of putting a conspiracy like this together."

Face suddenly dark, Ron mutters, "I can think of one."

Hermione immediately scowls, "Not this again Ron. You and Malfoy are _not_ going to become a repeat performance of your fathers in this. I don't want to see you two brawling it out in Flourish and Blotts. Especially since-"

"Since what," Ron cuts her off angrily, "Since he has the right connections, brains, and ideals-"

"Not anymore, Ronald!"

Harry sits in a abruptly uncomfortable silence across from the couple, a flashback to younger days. Only back then it was a cat and a rat, instead of Death Eaters and a Malfoy; simpler times, he supposed.

"It's the same that happened with his father, and everyone knows it-"

"Only because people keep hearing those sorts of comments! If you would just let it go and give him a chance-"

"After what happened to us," Ron is growing louder by the second, "After what he did to _you_ -"

"Ron."

He isn't sure whether it was the fact that Harry had moved to close the door to the hallway, or maybe even the way he said it, but the red head stopped cold at his name, face still burning with anger.

"I know you don't like Malfoy, Ron," Harry continues, taking his seat once more, "I'm not particularly fond of him either, but I have to agree with Hermione on this. Malfoy didn't do those things to us. In a way he was as much a victim as anybody-" he ignores the disbelieving snort, "either way, this is an old hat and doesn't much help anyone."

Hermione give a weak, but grateful smile as Ron continues to glower, the red fading from his face.

It was a strange sort of friendship Harry had with the Malfoys now - not so much the younger. No, he and Draco Malfoy still didn't see eye to eye, and Harry doubted they ever would. Too much history and misguided hatred between the two.

It was Narcissa who he'd come to an uneasy friendship with. How could he not? The woman had _lied_ straight to Voldemort's face to save his life, daring and risking everything in a way that no one really knew or could even truly understand.  And when the Malfoys went to trial...well, it was complicated.

But for all that he had played a part in helping the Malfoy family be pardoned, the Senior Malfoy notwithstanding, Ron had a point.

"Ron...might be right about something though, Hermione - hear me out," He quickly adds as now Hermione's face begins to grow a faint red and her hair almost seems to bristle. "I obviously don't think the Malfoys would be involved in this, but like it or not they do - or did have connections with that particular crowd."

Hermione doesn't immediately contradict him, though Ron snorts at this, instead furrowing her eyebrows in a way Harry knows mean that she is considering what he has to say, but she doesn't have to like it.

"It couldn't hurt to drop by Narcissa's and at least ask," he continues. "I need to head out tomorrow to check in with Kingsley again anyway and pick up those medical files for Whitley. And I think Kreacher found some old Black family jewelry that won't do anything but gather dust in his cupboard, so I might as well drop it off while I'm there."

He's not really asking for permission either way, doesn't need to. This is a thin lead to a distressing theory, but it's one of few avenues he has to take at the moment. He's got a job to do.

Harry just hopes Narcissa won’t throw him out before he can explain himself. Perhaps bringing the jewelry along is a good idea after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If anyone wants to suggest some other great HP crossovers I'm always looking for more! I also have this cross-posted on FF as well as a few other stories over there, feel free to check them out.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story that has been on the back-burner for a while. I usually post stuff on fanfiction (you can find me under BeIntrospective) but I thought I'd give this a try. If anyone wants to help Beta this, shoot me a ping and I'd be more than happy to have you.


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